


Praise me like you should

by the_worrying_kind



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Rimming, Shaving, So much smut, alternating pov, boys being surprisingly good at communicating, boys being touch starved for meaningful touch, i'm almost shocked with myself, illya is the gentlest dom imaginable, just about all the smut, only almost though, some humiliation, ties as symbolic collars, which is a nice way of saying that it's a fucking mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-25 13:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14978429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_worrying_kind/pseuds/the_worrying_kind
Summary: “I’ve been good, haven’t I?” Napoleon asks as he tentatively rubs his cheek against the back of Illya’s hand and his eyes look pleadingly up at the Russian.Illya swallows hard.“You have. You have been so good,” he whispers back and the low moan he gets as a reward makes everything in Illya ache.Or the one where Napoleon is about 98% cat and Illya is more than happy to have Napoleon as his pretty little pet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mitzvahmelting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitzvahmelting/gifts).



> As always I owe my thanks to [ kaijusizefeels ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusizefeels/) for being an awesome beta who puts up with my insecure whining like a fucking champ ♥
> 
> Also, look at this perfect edit by [ Atanau Art](http://atanau-art.tumblr.com/) ! Thank you so much ♥♥♥

Napoleon pours himself another drink as he watches Illya who’s sitting on the couch. He has all the files spread out on the coffee table and he’s staring at them the same way Napoleon has seen the Russian stare at a chessboard before. The other man seems deep in thought but blue eyes flick to Napoleon at the sound of the clink the bottle makes against the glass as Napoleon goes for yet another refill. Maybe Napoleon had let the two come into heavier contact than he’d meant to but he blames that on Illya; there is no way Napoleon wouldn’t be distracted by the waves of intense concentration Illya was transmitting.

Glass in hand, Napoleon makes his way towards his partner and slumps down next to him. A little less gracefully than he might have intended and just shy of _too close._

Illya looks at him again and his scowl deepens minutely. He looks poignantly at the glass teetering precariously in Napoleon’s hand. There’s clearly something bugging him, and Napoleon raises a challenging eyebrow at his partner.

“You drink too much,” is all Napoleon’s best eyebrow work gets him. He huffs but finds himself having nothing to say to counter Illya’s remark.

“I’ll drink to that,” he finally says and raises his glass in mock salute before draining the rest of the liquid. He barely flinches at the burn of it anymore. Illya has pushed the coffee table a bit too far for Napoleon to reach comfortably. _Damn those stupidly long legs of his_ Napoleon laments as he has to raise his tush off the lush sofa in order to rid himself of the now empty glass. He smirks at Illya and sits back down, only to land promptly on his ass with an undignified yelp after miscalculating where the edge of the couch should have been.

To his utter dismay, Illya chooses to steady the table Napoleon managed to kick instead of trying to help his partner. To add insult to injury, Illya curses loudly at him for messing up his precious files. Napoleon watches those long fingers fussing over the papers with an even deeper frown on his otherwise handsome face. Napoleon lets his head fall back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh and is finally rewarded by Illya’s attention— utterly annoyed and much too brief attention in a form of a glare, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that jazz.

At least Illya hasn’t moved his leg, which Napoleon is leaning against,  and Napoleon revels in the feeling of having it pressed against his side. Napoleon lets his gaze wander over his partner and he can’t help but sigh again. Would it kill Peril to get some nice clothes? The fabric on his slacks looks downright cheap and Napoleon is sure it is scratchy as hell too. He lifts his head to look at the offensive garment more closely and since squinting at the blurry grey fabric yield no definite results, Napoleon lets his cheek graze Illya’s knee. The pant leg feels coarse even against Napoleon’s stubble, and he makes a mental note to introduce his partner to finer fabrics.

Napoleon rests his head against Illya’s knee which functions way better as a pillow than it should. The hard, knobbly joint rubs his temple just right making Napoleon hum in pleasure. In his drunken, comfortable haze, Napoleon fails to notice how very still his new pillow has gone. All Napoleon can feel is peaceful contentment.

 

* * *

 

Illya looks down at his partner sitting at his feet. The files are all but forgotten as he feels Napoleon’s warmth seep through the combined layers of their clothing, feels it push into him and touch something Illya didn’t think he possessed any longer. Napoleon’s neck is a warm rouge; probably from the drink and Illya can feel the answering heat crawl up his insides and slowly choke him. Napoleon has gone still and Illya reaches a shaking hand towards him. He sets one to gently rest on the American’s shoulder so as not to startle the man.

“Cowboy? You awake?” Illya manages to choke out. He sounds strained even to his own ears.

Napoleon starts slightly and leans into Illya’s hand. Hand that had almost choked the life out of him not a mere weeks prior. Illya can almost feel rather than hear the barely audible whisper that Napoleon speaks against his hand. It’s small and desperate and makes everything in Illya ache. For a moment he is sure he must’ve imagined it before Napoleon leans harder into him, rubs his cheek against the back of Illya’s hand and pleads, “please, Illya.”

Illya isn’t quite sure what Napoleon is asking for but then Napoleon’s hand wraps loosely around his wrist. After another small plead, Illya runs the back of his hand slightly, ever so carefully, across his partner’s cheek. Illya can feel the huff of breath on his skin as Napoleon sighs and slumps against Illya like he was the only thing holding Napoleon up. Every last string of tension leaving Napoleon as Illya slowly works his fingers into the other man’s hair.

The hair is slightly creasy from the product Napoleon styles it with but runs surprisingly smoothly through Illya’s fingers. Encouraged by the way Napoleon tilts his head to grant Illya better access, Illya lets his curiosity guide him. He mentally catalogues every reaction he receives from Napoleon: the way he shivers when Illya gently scrapes his nails along Napoleon’s scalp  or the sigh Napoleon can’t quite keep from escaping as Illya plays with the impossibly soft curls at his nape. Illya loses all sense of time and feels himself unwind like never before while basically _petting_ his grown-ass partner, who in turn is literally purring into the fabric covering Illya’s thigh.


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon wakes up in his bed with a hangover but to his relief, from a dreamless sleep. The drink had stopped him from reliving Rudi’s chair once again and the relief soon twists into something else entirely at the brief flash of a nightmare Napoleon had not two nights ago.

The one in which Illya had not been there in time.

The one where the pain didn’t stop.

He had woken up body tensed, drenched in sweat and mouth gasping desperately for air. He even flinched at the small electric sound the light on the bedside table made as Napoleon switched it on in a desperate attempt to chase some of the shadows away.

The memory starts to pull Napoleon under. The sweat beading on his brow even now that he is fully awake. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe. The rest of the world falling away and leaving Napoleon’s mind spiralling head first into the darkest void imaginable. Swallowing him whole. Reaching every single corner of his mind and deep into his very core. Until there is nothing left but black. But darkness and pain and despair. 

But then a sound cuts through the fog. A bang and a scrape of wood against wood accompanied by a hissed Russian curse. A bright flash of a thought wrangles its way through the void.

_I_ _llya._

Napoleon concentrates on the sounds of Illya moving through their shared living space. The way the floorboards creak under his bulk and the rustling of fabric the flimsy door can’t quite muffle. Illya is there. Out of sight but still very much _there_. And the knowledge brings Napoleon more comfort than he would ever have imagined. It’s soothing and Napoleon lets it lull him into a peaceful daze.

That is until he hears the telltale creak of their front door being opened.

_No, no, NO!_ Napoleon’s mind screams and before he knows it, Napoleon is out of bed and through his door, stopping Illya in his tracks just as the Russian is about to step out.

“Wait!” Napoleon forces through the fresh squeeze of panic.

And Illya does. He stops, turns and looks at Napoleon like no one else ever does.

Napoleon takes in Illya’s attire and realizes that his partner is about to head out for his morning run. _It must be six o’clock then,_ Napoleon’s mind informs him. Even with their relative freedom, Illya has kept to his strict military routine and Napoleon has it all mapped out in his head. Not wanting to keep Illya from his run, Napoleon suddenly blurts out, “Wait! I’m coming too!”

Illya doesn’t even attempt to hide the look of surprise but waits patiently for Napoleon to pull on some sweats and put on his running shoes.

 

* * *

 

Illya has to keep glancing behind him to be sure that the panting he hears a few feet behind him is really coming out of his American partner. Illya had slowed his usual pace down and they had been running companionably side by side for a while. Not before long, Napoleon’s steps had begun to drag a bit; the evidence of last night’s heavy drinking and lack of sleep starting to show. To Illya’s surprise, the American kept going even though Illya could tell Napoleon had to put some real effort into moving forward. _Stubborn American_ , Illya thinks but fails to feel the pang of irritation such a thought usually sparked in him. Instead, Illya finds himself being _impressed_ by Napoleon’s determination.

Illya looks over his shoulder and Napoleon looks right back at him with a hopeful expression. So, Illya gives him a nod.

“You’re doing well, for soft American, Cowboy. Only one more mile to go,” Illya says with his next exhale.

Napoleon visibly perks up even if the flush on his cheeks seems to glow a shade darker. He’s at once beside Illya; matching his steps and pushing a little harder to make up for the disadvantage of having a slightly shorter gait than his partner.

“There you go! I knew you had it in you!” Illya says with a slight smile. Napoleon’s breath goes out of sync for a while but he keeps his pace up.

Illya in turn doesn’t seem to be able to keep his mouth shut.

“Keep your breathing even,” Illya instructs and listens for a beat to make sure Napoleon follows his advice.

To his surprise and sudden pleasure, Napoleon does. Illya can’t stop the “Good, good job” that pushes itself through his lips on the next exhale. Illya feels increasingly flabbergasted by his own behavior. When on earth did he become the chatty one out of the two? He forgets to be embarrassed when Napoleon speeds up slightly ahead of him after the last remark.

Their hotel comes into his view and Illya pushes to catch Napoleon.

“Come on. Last sprint, Cowboy,” he says and speeds ahead of Napoleon. Illya is astonished how close he becomes to not winning their little race. Napoleon is barely a few steps behind him and as the American stops next to him, Illya can’t help but to clap his shoulder with a little laugh. Illya has always enjoyed a little competition and even more so when he was evenly matched by his adversary.

“Good! Now we’ll just have an easy jog up the stairs to cool off. You can take the first shower. You’ve earned it,” Illya says as he gives Napoleon’s shoulder a little squeeze. He is rewarded by a tight groan from Napoleon and Illya can’t help the grin that spreads on his face. Illya heads up first but Napoleon is right there behind him all the way to their floor.

Once inside, Napoleon heads for the shower while Illya puts on a pot of coffee. Making it nice and strong: just the way he knows Napoleon likes it. As if lured out of the shower by the fresh pot, Napoleon emerges in a cloud of steam. He is wearing one of the robes and his hair is dripping on it. Illya huffs, gestures Napoleon to sit down and gives him a steaming mug. When Napoleon's hair manages to drip water into the coffee, Illya can’t stand it any longer. He grabs the kitchen towel and plops is unceremoniously over Napoleon’s head. He dabs and then ruffles the towel through Napoleon’s soaking hair.

Deeming his job well done, Illya lifts the towel to grin a little giddily at the mess he has made of Napoleon’s usually neatly styled locks. His grin turns into a slightly slack jawed awe when he sees the expression on Napoleon’s face. Napoleon is flushed and has his eyes closed. He has his head tilted back to give Illya access and his mouth is parted around a soft sigh. Illya swallows dryly and Napoleon opens his eyes to reveal just the tiniest sliver of blue. Illya’s heart races and gut coils with sudden heat at the sight in front of him.

Feeling like the biggest coward, Illya excuses himself a bit too hastily. Undoubtedly failing utterly to hide how Napoleon is affecting him as he heads for his own shower.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The mission planning was over and Illya had packed away the files and brought out their guns. Illya insisted on cleaning them to ensure they would work without a hitch on their mission the next day. Napoleon watches his partner’s too tall figure hunched over the coffee table. All of his things laid neatly in front of him and within an easy grasp. Napoleon’s own hands reach for the bottle and a tumbler but he halts in his actions at Illya’s interruption.

“No,” Illya says as he fixes his eyes on Napoleon. His voice is soft and gentle but leaves little room for argument.

“You need to be at your best tomorrow, Cowboy. No drinking before mission.” With that, Illya concentrates back on his task; not even bothering to observe whether Napoleon follows his instructions or not.

Which he of course does.

Napoleon cannot find it in himself to disobey a command so tenderly given.

He sets the bottle down and Illya hums in approval. The sound resonates throughout Napoleon’s body and gives him a buzz far headier than the drink itself ever could have. However, without his evening drinking routine Napoleon feels listless. As if sensing his unease, Illya is there to direct him.

“You can come and help me instead, no?” Illya asks.

Napoleon knows Illya doesn’t need his help and is usually more than happy cleaning their guns by himself; clearly taking pleasure in chiding Napoleon on the condition of his firearm. Illya would often lecture him how Napoleon should take better care of his gun, especially since it was American made and thus more likely to jam anyway. Napoleon would usually only half listen to the tirade as he let the whiskey numb him.

Tonight is clearly not going to be one of those nights.

Napoleon walks towards the couch and stops next to it. Memories of the night before when he had sat at Illya’s feet coming back at full force. He wants nothing more than to have it again. Illya is concentrating on taking the guns apart and seemingly oblivious to Napoleon’s inner turmoil. Yet, without looking at him, Illya simply says “sit”, and Napoleon doesn’t think anymore, just lets himself fold to the floor against Illya’s leg. To Napoleon’s relief, the Russian shows no signs of being surprised.

Napoleon heart is hammering while simultaneously he feels himself relax. Feelings war in him briefly before his thoughts are once again interrupted by Illya’s low voice.

“Hand me the gun oil,” Illya simply states and Napoleon springs into action and reaches for the small bottle. Illya’s fingers brush against his as he takes the offered lubricant and the fleeting contact sparks something in Napoleon. But it’s again Illya’s words that bring a pleased flush on his face.

“Thank you, Cowboy,” is all Illya murmurs but it makes Napoleon feel useful and valued.

They fall into sync with Napoleon assisting Illya and flushing every time Illya is pleased with him. He is still pressed against Illya’s leg and the solid line of it grounds him as much as the task at hand does. He doesn’t have to think; only follow Illya’s lead and it makes his whole body feel almost weightless. He can scarcely remember a time when he was this comfortable. It must’ve been before the CIA or even before the ugliness of war. There had always been short respites but never anything like _this._

 

* * *

 

 

Illya examines the guns in front of him. They are up to his standards now and he has always found the simple task oddly soothing. To his surprise, Napoleon presence didn’t take the almost meditative aspect away from him. His partner had worked perfectly as an extension of himself and maybe observing closely for once, might help the American take better care of his firearm. And therefore keep him just a little bit safer in the future.

Pleased about the job well done, Illya slaps his hands on his knees as he is about to get up.

“Pack up the kit while I put these away,” Illya tells Napoleon but for the first time that day Napoleon doesn’t instantly follow Illya’s orders. An unsure hand wraps around Illya’s ankle and he is forced to look down at the man sitting at his feet. Napoleon is looking up at him through his lashes, clearly unsure of what to say. So, Illya stills and waits.

It is not very Napoleon to be at a loss for words and Illya finds himself being the one to break the silence once more.

“You don’t want to?” he guesses.

“No! I mean, it’s fine. I’d love to pack up your kit,” Napoleon is quick to fill in.

Illya waits for a beat longer. “Then what’s the matter, Cowboy?” he asks softly.

Napoleon swallows and looks down. Then seemingly gathering his courage, he looks up again.

“Just,” Napoleon starts. “Just a bit longer. Please. I - I like it down here,” Napoleon almost whispers.

“I’ve been good, haven’t I?” Napoleon asks as he tentatively rubs his cheek against the back of Illya’s hand as his eyes look pleadingly up at Illya.

Illya swallows hard.

“You have. You have been so good,” he whispers back and the low moan he gets as a reward reverbates against his leg.

“Then,” Napoleon begins as he gently takes a hold of Illya’s hand. The Russian hadn’t noticed how hard he’d been clutching at his own knee before Napoleon pries his fingers loose. Slowly, oh so slowly, Napoleon moves  Illya’s hand to caress against his high cheekbone, lets it glide along his stubbled jaw until Illya feels his knuckles brush against Napoleon’s throat.

“Please, Peril,” Napoleon asks and Illya can feel the bob of Napoleon’s adam’s apple as his partner swallows.

The touch is so sweet, so intimate that Illya finds it hard to think. He realizes he’s stopped breathing and lets his lips part as he takes in much needed breath. Illya doesn’t take his hand away nor does he dare to move it. All he can think of is how vulnerable Napoleon is at this moment. How he’s putting his life, his _everything,_ in Illya’s unsteady hands. No one has ever trusted Illya this much before and Illya thinks it’s been for a very good reason. But Napoleon moves Illya’s hand to circle his throat loosely and Illya can feel how wild the American’s pulse is. Napoleon looks flushed and has his eyes closed as he breathes in shaky breaths.

“Please,” is what come out of Napoleon with the next exhale.

He squeezes Illya’s hand firmer around his throat.

“Please.”

But Illya can’t. He just can’t. He would _never._ Not to Napoleon.

So, he pries his hand free as gently as he can and moves it back to tangle in the fine hairs at the nape of Napoleon’s neck. He gets a firmer grip and tilts Napoleon’s head back and the other man moans and goes half limp with it.

“Look at me, Cowboy,” he orders softly.

Napoleon looks up at him with eyes that are mostly pupil and Illya needs to take a few steadying breaths at the sight.

“Tell me what you want,” he says.

Napoleon hesitates and Illya tugs at his hair a bit.

The moan Napoleon lets out also seems to break whatever barrier he previously had.

“I want you to take care of me. To make me forget. Help me not to think. Make me feel useful. Be the boss of me for a while.  I want you to _own_ me,” Napoleon lets rush out and Illya gentless the grip of his hair instantly.

“Of course I will,” Illya breathes out. “I will take such good care of you, my kitten,” Illya says as he runs his fingers through Napoleon’s hair.

There is a collective sigh of relief from both of them.

“I will give you all the good things you deserve,” Illya promises as he looks down at his partner who fidgets minutely.

“But what if I’ve been bad?” Napoleon asks to Illya’s astonishment.

“Bad?” Illya asks incredulously.

“Yeah,” Napoleon breathes out and exposes more of his throat again.

“There are so many bad things that I’ve done,” he whispers. Napoleon’s body shivers at the admission and Illya feels the familiar rush of anger.

“We have all done bad things, Cowboy. Doesn’t mean you're a bad person,” Illya tells him.

He can feel Napoleon shake his head as his lips open to form a rebuke to Illya’s statement.

“No,” Illya interrupts him. He takes both his hands and cups Napoleon’s face between them.

“Look at me.”

And Napoleon does.

“You. Do. Not. Deserve. To. Be. Punished.” Illya tells him, thumbs gently stroking along Napoleon’s cheeks with each word.

Napoleon’s eyes well up and his breath hitches but he does not look away. The next time Napoleon blinks, Illya feels wetness against the fingers still holding Napoleon’s face. Napoleon finally collapses unto Illya, head against his thigh and fingers clutching at the fabric of Illya’s pants as he sobs. Illya just holds him through it. Strokes Napoleon’s hair and murmurs soothingly at him.

“I will not hurt you. I will only take care of you. You deserve good things. You _are_ good.”

Illya has no idea if Napoleon hears him but Illya plans to show him how much he means every word. Illya has been taught to be cold, analytical, some might say heartless. He has been schooled to be brutal, violent even merciless. He has never been good at handling delicate things but damn if he isn’t going to try his best this time.


	4. Chapter 4

Napoleon is utterly exhausted and half asleep by the time Illya tucks him in. Illya had helped him out of his clothes apart from his underwear and the cotton sheets feel cool and calming against his bare skin. There’s a soft murmur of  _ Good night, Cowboy  _ that makes Napoleon sigh just before he lets sleep drag him under.

The peace doesn’t last long. Napoleon wakes up with a scream; heart hammering and panic rising. He can’t see. He can’t breathe. He’s sure his heart is giving out any minute now with the rate it’s going. He tries to gasp in a breath but his lungs refuse to work. He starts to claw at the sheets desperately but nothing’s helping. 

Then the sheets are lifted off of him as a hand presses itself right against his chest where his heart is beating wildly. There’s something in that touch that his heart responds to, and his lungs feel compelled to expand under it. After the first shuddering breath, Napoleon hears his name being called out through the thrumming of the blood in his ears. The hand on his chest keeps rubbing life into him and something warm and huge molds itself against Napoleon’s back. In no time at all he is wrapped tightly against Illya’s strong frame while soothing words are whispered in his ear. His back is pressed so snuggly against Illya’s chest that the steady rise and fall of Illya’s breathing starts forcing Napoleon’s body to match it. Napoleon’s body accepts Illya’s lead and adapts to the other man’s steady rhythm. 

As the hand keeps on rubbing, Napoleon keeps on breathing.

The next time Napoleon wakes up, it is not with a start. He slowly comes to and although his movements are being restricted, he’s not feeling panicked about it. Familiar arms are wrapped around him and a long leg tangled with his. He surrenders to the hold but Illya stirs nevertheless. 

“Is still early, Cowboy. You can go back to sleep,” Illya murmurs; lips brushing against Napoleon’s skin. 

But Napoleon doesn’t feel sleepy. Not because he is avoiding sleep like he normally does, but because he feels rested for the first time in a long while despite the nightmare. Lying here in Illya’s arms, the memory of his  dream doesn’t stir a new wave of panic in him. So, he simply lies there and enjoys being held. He plays idly with the fine hairs of Illya’s forearm and listens to the calming sound of the other man’s breathing. The sun is peeking through the poorly closed curtains and bathes everything in warm yellow. 

“Hmmm, fine,” Illya murmurs after a while and Napoleon can feel his chest resonating against Napoleon’s back, “if you don’t want to sleep, then you should go take a shower. You need to look your best for your mark today.”

Napoleon knows Illya is right, but he is hesitant to leave his safe nest. Unfortunately, it is not up to him. Illya starts extracting himself but stops to brush his fingers along Napoleon’s stubble.

“Go shower but don’t shave. Wait for me in the bathroom. You slept so well without the booze that you deserve a special treat, yes?”

Napoleon’s insides flutter with the praise and his heartbeat picks up at the promise. He is out of the bed before Illya as he heads for one of the quickest showers of his life. He hopes Illya hears him turning the water off and will come in and reward him soon. Slightly unsure whether or not he should dry himself, since Illya didn’t specify what would be happening after he joined Napoleon in the bathroom, Napoleon opts for haphazardly toweling himself before wrapping the towel around his waist as he waits. 

Luckily, Illya doesn’t make him wait long.

The door opens and Illya takes one look at Napoleon dripping water all over the floor before making a small noise of disapproval. The sound makes Napoleon’s stomach sink.

“You really need to start taking better care of yourself, Cowboy,” Illya chides him as he reaches for a dry towel. Napoleon hadn’t even noticed he had started shivering until he is enveloped in the fluffy warmth of the fresh towel. Illya rubs it gently against his skin, but the comfort isn’t enough to chase away that uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He needs to get rid of it.

“I’m sorry,” he say and Illya stops. There’s a gentle finger underneath Napoleon’s chin urging him to look up and at Illya.

“What for?” Illya asks.

“For not taking care of myself properly. I wasn’t sure,” Napoleon begins. “I also kinda wanted you to do it,” he finally admits.

Illya wraps the towel around Napoleon shoulders and cups his face. Illya looks crestfallen.

“I’m so sorry, kitten. I didn’t mean it like that. Just don’t want you to suffer needlessly and you were obviously cold. I don’t ever want you to be uncomfortable. Next time, I’ll be clearer, yes? You did nothing wrong, understood?”

Napoleon flushes at that and Illya waits until Napoleon nods. 

“Good. Sit down,” Illya says as he closes the toilet seat.

Napoleon sits as Illya turns to the sink to pick up the items he brought with him. Napoleon instantly recognizes the big brush as Illya works up a good lather. Illya’s shaving cream smells of sandalwood, but most of all, its fragrance reminds Napoleon of Illya. To have that same scent, Illya’s scent, on his skin excites him, and Napoleon is forced to take a calming breath. Illya glances at him questioningly at the sudden sound and stops. Napoleon realizes that Illya is feeling unsure, maybe thinking that Napoleon is averse to the idea of Illya shaving him. Napoleon tilts his head back and lets his eyes slide half mast with how hazy he feels with lust at the mere idea. He even shifts a bit to accommodate the sudden swelling that is taking place between his legs under his towel.

Illya’s observant eyes scan him closely before he brings the brush against Napoleon’s jaw. He works the lather carefully but without tickling. The scent invades Napoleon’s senses as he breathes it in greedily. The repetitive motion of the brush is soothing, and Napoleon angles his face without thinking to give Illya better access. Illya hums and turns briefly to switch the brush to the razor. Napoleon knows Illya is dangerous yet he fails to feel anything but safe facing the man holding an actual blade that he is about to put against Napoleon’s throat. Napoleon can scarcely think of anything he had ever wanted more. 

Napoleon’s breath hitches in anticipation as Illya takes a hold of his face to make sure he stays still. Illya starts carefully down Napoleon’s cheek. Napoleon can’t tear his eyes away from the concentrated look on Illya’s face. Napoleon has seen Illya this focused before; he has been the target of Illya’s stubborn determination before as well. He remembers how breathtaking Illya’s intensity had been through the back window of Gaby’s speeding getaway car, but he has never been this close to it before. Nor has he ever before been given the opportunity to study that look unencumbered and without any rush. Illya’s eyes seem somehow even bluer or the way he tilts his head just slightly to the right making the bathroom light catch the swoop of Illya’s endless lashes. Illya is simply heart-stoppingly magnificent. 

Illya works his way down Napoleon’s cheek one careful slide of the razor at a time. When he reaches the edge of Napoleon’s jaw, his grip becomes slightly firmer. The added control Illya has of him, makes heat pool in the pit of Napoleon’s stomach.

“Do not move,” Illya tells Napoleon. He  doesn’t need to be told that but the direct order sparks something in Napoleon that sharpens his focus even more; he will be so still for Illya. The thought sends shivers down his spine but he doesn’t let even one muscle move in his throat. He steadies his breathing and fights the urge to swallow. Napoleon times the convulsions of his throat to when Illya is wiping the blade clean of the shaving cream. Having a sense of duty, a purpose, helps him ignore how much this is turning him on. Or at least that’s what Napoleon thinks until he almost fails to stop the moan that threatens to escape him as Illya’s razor scrapes against his pulse point. Napoleon is utterly and completely wrecked.

When Illya is done, he wipes Napoleon’s face and neck down with a cool washcloth to get rid of any excess shaving foam he had left behind. 

“Not a single nick,” Illya admires. 

“You didn’t move  at all. You did so well, Napoleon, so well,” Illya continues as he finishes wiping Napoleon’s face. 

Napoleon can’t help but preen at the praise. When Illya finishes off by gently massaging aftershave onto Napoleon’s bristle free skin, Napoleon doesn’t bother biting back the moan any longer. Feeling Illya’s long, sure fingers gliding against his sensitive skin feels simply heavenly and he wants Illya to know that too.

 

* * *

  
  


Illya is still in awe that Napoleon trusted him enough to let him shave him as he leads Napoleon back into the American’s bedroom. He picked out an outfit for Napoleon while the other man was in the shower. Illya chose clothing he knew would make Napoleon downright irresistible to their mark. Illya had to stamp out a flare of jealousy at the idea of other people lusting after Napoleon. He reminded himself that it was for the good of the mission, and successful mission was good for them; good for Napoleon.

Determined not to repeat his mistake from earlier, Illya chooses his words very carefully.

“Get dressed and when you are ready come and join me for breakfast. There is no hurry, understand?” 

Napoleon nods and Illya doesn’t quite close the door behind him. 

Illya scrambles some eggs, gets the toast ready and brews the coffee just how he knows Napoleon likes it. He is nowhere near as good as cook as Napoleon but the dish is simple enough for even Illya’s limited culinary skills. 

Napoleon’s saunters into the kitchen just as Illya is about to serve their eggs. He leaves them in the pan to keep warm as he turns to take Napoleon in. Napoleon looks calm and confident in his tailored three piece suit. The colors work seamlessly with his complexion and the way he has the jacket draped casually over his arm makes him seem that more accessible. His hair is still wild and curly after his shower and Illya’s fingers itch to touch it; to play with it until he hears Napoleon moan in approval.

Napoleon notices the way Illya openly admires him and smirks at the Russian. Illya might have felt slightly annoyed if the smirk wasn’t paired off with the prettiest blush spreading down Napoleon’s cheeks, all the way to the hollow of his neck. That reminds him of the one missing piece of Napoleon’s attire he had pocketed instead of leaving it for Napoleon to find. 

Not quite trusting his voice, Illya beckons Napoleon closer to him. Illya is irrationally pleased by the fact that Napoleon has left few of the top buttons undone in the absence of the tie. Illya lets his fingertips brush against the hairs of Napoleon’s chest as he buttons the shirt up the rest of the way. Illya allows himself enjoy the heated skin of his partner’s neck as he works his finger along the collar to pop it up. Then he produces the tie, one of Illya’s own, and loops it around Napoleon neck. He takes a few moment to measure the perfect length before tying the knot. As he tightens it securely around Napoleon’s neck, he can feel his hands tremor slightly. The act feels so intimate to Illya and thinking about Napoleon walking out in the world with Illya’s tie around his neck fills him with possessive pride. He knows Napoleon isn’t his but Illya lets himself have his fantasy. He does, however, resists the urge to wrap his hand around the end of the tie and use it to tug Napoleon even closer. Fighting his desires, Illya finds himself running his hands along the tie to straighten it a few more times than strictly necessary; he is only a human after all.

Smoothing the collar back in place, Illya takes in Napoleon’s appearance one more time.

“You look absolutely perfect,” he can’t help but say out loud. The blush on Napoleon’s face is enough to make him want to never leave this moment. He wants to press his fingers into the beautiful rouge and test if it is as warm as it looks. More than that, he wants to make Napoleon blush even harder; wants to make him turn pink everywhere and then touch him all over; wants to chase the heat of flushed skin and arousal with his lips. Illya’s fingers twitch at the sudden pang of visceral  _ want _ that makes him briefly lightheaded.

Napoleon is so close that it would be so easy to close the gap between them; so easy to tell Napoleon to kiss him. Illya allows himself to study the inviting curve of Napoleon’s lips: how they are slightly parted and look impossibly soft. Kissing Napoleon right now would be  _ so easy. _

Illya is sure the American would obey if he asked. Maybe even flush a shade pinker at the request and respond to Illya’s moan with one of his own. He would be undoubtedly eager to please; would yield beautifully underneath Illya’s hungry mouth and gasp when Illya was finally able to tear himself away long enough for both of them to breathe.

But Illya isn’t exactly sure if that is something Napoleon actually wants. Illya isn’t sure if this thing between them is like that. If  _ they  _ are like that.

Illya is giving Napoleon what he clearly needs; what Napoleon asked for. He is taking care of Napoleon and making decisions for him and Napoleon seems more than happy with the way Illya is playing their little game. However, there has been nothing overtly sexual between them yet and Napoleon hadn’t said anything along those lines the night before. Moreover, he has no idea if this is something Napoleon wants specifically from  _ Illya _ or if he just happened to be the only option available. Napoleon has to be pretty desperate to let Illya near his throat with a razor after all. Maybe this is what Napoleon used to have with his CIA handler? Illya shudders to think what they might have made Napoleon do when he was this pliant.

Illya tugs the end of the tie underneath Napoleon’s vest before collecting all of his willpower and stepping back. Napoleon sways minutely after him and Illya steels himself against the pull the motion awakens in his own being. Forcing his body to obey, Illya turns  back to the eggs.

Illya refuses to have his own needs met at his partner’s expense. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all of you who have been reading and commenting! You've made my beta's life a lot easier since my insecure whining has decreased a lot because of your kind words <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took longer than I anticipated! Although without [ eavos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eavos/works) being utterly awesome and stepping in as an emergency beta, this would've taken even longer! Thank you so much for the help! ♥
> 
> Also, a huge thank you to all who have commented and cheered me on! It has meant a lot ♥

The mission is a success. Napoleon charms his way into the mark’s good graces, cracks the safe expertly and steals the required intel. Illya is the backup that luckily isn’t needed. Illya drives them home a little recklessly and Napoleon can’t help but enjoy the thrill as the car skids around the corners. He laughs out loud and feels the urge to egg Illya on to drive even faster. Napoleon can see the smile tug at the corner of Illya’s mouth and he himself ends up grinning a little giddily the whole way home.

Once inside, Napoleon waits as Illya sends the preliminary mission report back to UNCLE. He idly listens to Illya’s deep voice and fiddles with his tie.  _ Illya’s  _ tie. Napoleon’s pulse picks up just at the mere thought of what the gesture might mean. Even though all the other people in the room had been completely oblivious to the fact, Napoleon had felt almost delirious every time he even thought of the tie. Wearing a sign of Illya’s possession of him in public had been such an erotic experience. He couldn’t help but play with the tie; adjusting it to fit more snuggly around his throat and loving the way he had to work just that bit harder to swallow. It was a way of feeling Illya with him throughout the mission. 

Napoleon is now hoping he has done enough to earn everything that came with being Illya’s. He wonders if he had finally deserved the right to make Illya feel as good as he was making Napoleon feel. Maybe Illya would finally kiss him or if Napoleon dares to really hope, maybe he would finally have Illya’s cock. Napoleon feels his own harden at the thought and adjusts himself quickly before wandering into their living room. He takes his usual spot on the floor in front of the couch and kneels there in wait for Illya.

Napoleon doesn’t have to wait long.

Illya doesn’t say anything but Napoleon can hear the slight hitch in Illya’s breath when he notices Napoleon. He keeps his eyes down as the Russian approaches and focuses on Illya’s socked feet as he comes to a stop in front of Napoleon. 

“Waverly is very pleased with how mission went,” Illya says. 

“Very pleased with you.”

Something in Illya’s tone makes Napoleon look up at him. The Russian is studying him but Napoleon isn’t quite sure what for. 

Napoleon swallows deliberately so that he can feel Illya’s tie better around his neck. Its presence gives him the confidence to break the silence unprompted.

“What about you? Are you pleased with me?” he finally asks.

Illya’s eyes soften and his fingers visibly twitch.

“Yes, Cowboy. I am very pleased with you,” he admits and a wave of approval washes over Napoleon. Finally, Illya’s hand comes up to brush tentative fingertips along the other man’s face. They feel blissfully cool against his flushed skin. Napoleon closes his eyes and tilts his face minutely toward Illya’s too gentle fingers; dares to even turn his face enough to kiss the wandering digits. There’s a loud exhale above him.

“I need you to look at me, Cowboy,” Illya says, so Napoleon does.

“I want to reward you.” 

Napoleon’s whole body shivers in anticipation.

“Tell me what you want. Tell me what you want from me. Anything at all that you really want, you can have. You did so good today, so good,” Illya promises.

Napoleon’s chest is rising a bit erratically and he knows he’s already flushed scarlet but  _ damn _ . Peril is promising him anything he wants.  _ Anything. _

“You, Illya. I want you,” he moans.

“You can have me if you just use your words,” Illya soothes him and his hand is back to caressing the American’s cheek. Napoleon uses the touch to ground himself.

“I want you to tell me I’m good,” he begins and feels the pang of humiliation spiking the waves of his arousal. Illya hums approvingly as Napoleon bites his lip trying to get the words out.

“Want you to make me yours. God, Peril. Wearing your tie in front of all those people? Showing them who I belong to? I want you to show me that I am yours. That you’ll have me,” he finally blurts out. 

Napoleon sees how his words are affecting Illya, whose breathing is growing increasingly ragged. That gives him the final push to go all in.

“And I want to suck your cock, please. Tell me I can suck it?” Napoleon pleads but resists the urge to stare at the bulge already at his eye level and stares at Illya’s eyes instead; marvels how they seem to be almost all pupil at this point. The Russian’s hand on his face is trembling slightly and for a heart beat Napoleon is worried Illya is not going to let him. But then Illya’s other hand reaches out and he traces the outline of Napoleon’s parted lips with his thumb almost reverently.

“That is good, kitten. Very good,” he rasps out.

“But can I kiss you first?” Illya asks as his thumb continues its exploration of Napoleon’s lips. Napoleon’s heart hammers as he nods his eager consent but Illya is not having it.

“When I ask you a question, I want you to use your words to answer, understood?”

Napoleon swallows hard and feels his lips brushing against the Russian’s thumb as he answers.

“Yes. Please,” Napoleon he breathes. 

“Yes what?” Illya demands gently.

“Yes, I understand and yes, you can kiss me. Please, kiss me,” he half begs.

“You are doing so well, kitten, so well. Just one more thing and you will get what you want,” Illya says in such a sweet tone of voice that the American feels himself melting despite his growing arousal. 

Illya’s hands still and he looks at Napoleon very seriously.

“What if I do something you do not like?” he asks.

“Then I will say ‘red’. Red means stop, yellow I’m not quite comfortable and green means all is good,” Napoleon explains.  _ No calling Illya the Red Peril in the bedroom then _ he muses briefly. Then, licking his lips intentionally seductively to remind Illya of his earlier promise, he continues. “And if my mouth is full, I will tap twice.”

“Good, kitten. From this point onwards I don’t want you to speak unless I ask you a question, yes?” Illya tells him in a soft but assertive voice.

“Yes, Illya,” Napoleon answers as he shivers at the other man’s tone.

There’s a hum of approval and then Napoleon is being hauled up by his tie. He goes willingly but resisting just enough to feel the knot tightening marginally. He moans shamelessly to encourage Illya’s manhandling of him. The Russian gives the tie a tug as his other hand tilts Napoleon’s face to the side. Illya leans in close and runs his lips feather light across Napoleon’s cheek; right where his flush is the brightest. Napoleon tries to lean into it but Illya stops his movements. That makes Napoleon shiver. Illya’s lips are inching their way towards Napoleon’s awaiting mouth and all he can do is wait; wait for Illya to decide to kiss him.

Which he finally does.

It is infuriatingly soft: a quick brush of lips that nearly makes Napoleon’s knees buckle. He would be embarrassed but then he hears the absolutely wrecked noise Illya makes before finally claiming Napoleon’s mouth properly. The kiss is hungry but sweet. Illya takes his time exploring Napoleon’s mouth; tasting his upper lip before nipping the lower one gently. Napoleon gasps and moans into Illya’s mouth and the first lick of the Russian’s tongue against his own makes Napoleon honest to God  _ swoon. _ He is held up almost solely by Illya as Napoleon’s own hands hang useless at his sides.

When Illya pulls back, Napoleon whimpers at the loss.

“You can touch me, if you want,” Illya whispers against Napoleon’s mouth before kissing him again. Napoleon’s hands reach out to grasp anything and everything they can. He tries to run them all over the body he has coveted for months but ends up mainly just clinging desperately to Illya. Napoleon molds their bodies hungrily together and revels in the full body experience that is Illya’s answering moan. Illya’s hands travel down to cup Napoleon’s ass and the American groans loudly as Illya pulls him in to rub against one of his long thighs. 

Napoleon has to wrench his mouth free to breathe as Illya keeps pressing deliciously against his hard cock while kneading Napoleon’s behind in his massive hands. Illya’s mouth is moving all over Napoleon’s face and neck as he kisses any available skin. He suckles at the American’s  pulse point and Napoleon can do nothing but writhe against the giant of a man holding him.

Illya is murmuring something into his skin between kisses and it takes a while for Napoleon’s mind to catch up.

“You’ve been so good. Yes. Let me kiss you like I wanted. Thank you, kitten. Thank you. Now it’s time for you to get what you wanted.”

Napoleon moans at the promise and Illya lets him slide back down to his knees. Napoleon uses Illya’s strong thighs to steady himself for a bit before working on opening Illya’s pants with shaky hands. Illya’s fingers are once again buried in his hair but they are not there to guide or urge him on. Napoleon works Illya’s pants and underwear down just far enough to free his cock, which is long and lean just like him. It is already hard, curving and drooling. The sight makes Napoleon’s mouth positively water. 

Napoleon looks up at Illya to see his chest heaving as he slowly lets the wet tip into his mouth. The fingers in his hair tighten as Napoleon can’t help but hum at the first taste of Illya on his tongue. Illya is watching him and strokes his other hand down Napoleon’s cheek as he takes him in further.

“You look so good on your knees for me, Cowboy. You feel so good on my cock,” he purrs.

Napoleon’s eyes close at the words as he feels a flush high on his cheeks at the words. He moans and takes Illya in as far as he can before stopping for a beat. Napoleon can’t remember the last time he did this to someone because he wanted to. He had all but forgotten what a thrilling feeling it could be. He revels at the heady weight of Illya on his tongue. 

Napoleon can feel himself growing greedy as he starts up a rhythm. He tries to get more and more of Illya’s cock into his mouth with every downstroke. Napoleon can feel the other man’s  strong thighs clenching under his hands as the other man fights to control himself but Napoleon doesn’t want that. He wants Illya to lose control; to use Napoleon for his pleasure. The thought alone makes Napoleon moan around the girth in his mouth and the answering moan from Illya sounds as wrecked as Napoleon feels.

“You take me so well, kitten. You’re doing so well for me, baby,” Illya praises. 

Napoleon almost chokes and it has nothing to do with the cock in his mouth. Of course, Illya notices.

“You like that? You like it when I tell you what a good job you are doing, no?”

Napoleon hums.

“But you like it even more when I call you baby?” Illya asks, awe evident in his voice.

There it is again. The word that makes Napoleon feel like he could combust any second. It feels humiliating and exhilarating at the same time. It would make Napoleon want to hide in shame if it didn’t also make him want to give up everything just to hear Illya call him that again.

Cheeks aflame, Napoleon tries his hardest to get Illya riled up enough to let go. He swirls his tongue around the head and hollows his cheeks as he sucks with abandon. Illya’s fingers momentarily tighten in his hair and he lets out a breathy  _ Fuck, baby.  _ that only manages to rile  _ Napoleon  _ up even further. 

Napoleon seeks to use his grip on Illya’s thighs to urge him deeper as he tries to relax his throat. In his urgency, Napoleon takes Illya a bit too deep a bit too fast and at once the hand in his hair tightens as he is pulled off Illya’s cock. Napoleon moans at the rough handling but whimpers unashamedly at the loss. 

“Careful, baby,” Illya warns him. “Now, we talked about this before, no? You taking care of yourself? You can’t have what you want if you use it to hurt yourself, hmm? If I let you go, will you be as good to yourself as you’re being to me?” Illya asks as he rubs his thumb across Napoleon’s reddened lips. 

Napoleon suckles the digit in shamelessly as he nods around it. Illya groans and lets up his grip, allowing Napoleon to dive right back in. Napoleon closes his eyes and redoubles his efforts to make Illya abandon his decorum. Frustratingly, he  fails at his mission once more but it doesn’t take him long to accidentally choke on Illya’s cock again.

The hand in his hair starts to pull him off but Napoleon tries to fight it with a desperate moan. Illya tuts him and the disapproval of it makes Napoleon give up immediately. He had been so wrapped up in his own desires he forgot to be good for Illya. 

“We are going to try this one more time, yes?” Illya says in a slightly sterner voice that fills Napoleon with hope. He looks demurely at the ground in the hopes it would help his case. 

“But you will be punished for not following orders before that,” Illya continues and Napoleon’s insides twist simultaneously in lust and worry. 

“Hands behind your back. Don’t move.”

The tone of Illya’s voice leaves no room for argument so Napoleon clasps his hands behind his back.

“That’s good, baby. Now, open up.”

Illya’s hand cups Napoleon’s jaw and angles his head to his liking.  _ Finally, _ Napoleon thinks as Illya feeds his length back into Napoleon’s awaiting mouth. They both moan in unison and Napoleon lets his eyes fall shut; concentrates fully on the sensation of Illya holding him and moving in his pliant mouth. Napoleon tests the waters and flattens his tongue on the underside of Illya’s cock. The action is rewarded only by an appreciative moan so Napoleon keeps still otherwise, but lets his tongue goad Illya on. 

“Just like that, baby. Your mouth is just made for this, no? Feels so good, baby, so fucking good,” Illya moans but he’s still pushing into Napoleon’s mouth all too politely for the American’s liking. The shallow little thrusts frustrate him but Illya doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. Then Napoleon manages to catch him by surprise with a particularly clever twist of his tongue and Illya’s iron grip on his self control slips for just a single stuttering second. As Illya’s hips lurch minutely more forcefully than he clearly intended, Napoleon moans wantonly.

“Hmm,” Illya contemplates. 

“You really think you can handle me in your pretty little throat, baby?”

Napoleon whimpers and stares meaningfully up at Illya; hoping the Russian can tell how much the idea alone is turning him on. Illya replies by adjusting his hand on Napoleon’s jaw.

“Then open up, baby.”

Which is exactly what Napoleon’s body does. His throat relaxes, allowing Illya’s cock to slide in. Napoleon can’t breathe and he feels tears stinging his eyes but he can’t remember the last time anything made him this hard or desperate. He whimpers pathetically as Illya eases out, but the Russian shushes him before sliding back in. After a few tries, Napoleon’s nose brushes against Illya’s happy trail as Illya slides all the way down Napoleon’s throat. His throat is working frantically around the other man’s length as Illya makes an utterly wounded sound at the back of his. Illya holds him there for a moment longer and Napoleon can feel tears rolling down his cheeks as his vision grows a bit hazy around the corners. When Illya finally pulls back for Napoleon to breathe, he can’t help but feel a pang of loss at the sudden emptiness. Then Illya pushes all the way in again and Napoleon’s whole body shakes with how hard his own cock throbs.

“Look at you. On your knees with my cock down so far your throat that you can’t breathe and still wanting more. So greedy for me. So good for me, baby,” Illya downright purrs. All Napoleon can do in return is to whimper needily. 

As Illya pulls back, he pulls all the way out but Napoleon fights his urge to follow. That earns him an appraising murmur from Illya who nudges the edge of Napoleon’s lower lip with his cock before letting it slip in again. Illya is back to his shallow little thrusts and the tears on Napoleon’s cheeks threaten to be joined by tears of frustration. But Illya keeps on talking,  _ God  _ the things his words are doing to Napoleon.

“I know you want me to come in your mouth, don’t you? Push myself as far down as I can and come down your throat, hmm kitten?” 

Napoleon groans and tries to open his mouth wider, force Illya deeper.

“Mmm, greedy,” Illya hums but complies. His hips pick up their pace as Napoleon does his best to keep up and suck. Illya’s rhythm grows increasingly erratic and Napoleon can feel him harden impossibly further on his tongue. Napoleon’s own cock twitches inside the confines of his pants at the feeling.

Illya’s huge hand is devastatingly gentle on his cheek as he asks “Ready for me, baby?” before letting his cock push down Napoleon’s throat once more. 

Napoleon swallows compulsively around it and relishes the wrecked keen Illya makes as he does. Illya ruts against Napoleon’s face as his fingers threat insanely gently through Napoleon’s hair; completely at odds with the way Illya’s hardness chokes him. Just as he’s about to come, the Russian tightens the grip of one hand in Napoleon’s hair as he pulls out completely. Napoleon is left gaping and gasping as Illya takes himself in hand. Three twists of his wrist later and Illya comes all over Napoleon’s astonished face.  
  
  


* * *

 

 

Illya has to use Napoleon for balance to stay upright. His heart is hammering and vision slightly blurry after the force of his orgasm. Napoleon hasn’t moved or spoken but the look of disbelief is apparent on his face. His perfect face that is stained with tears and spit underneath pearly ropes of Illya’s come. He runs an idle finger through the mess; humming thoughtfully. When the digit inches closer to Napoleon’s parted lips, his tongue comes out to flick at the tip and Illya lets him suckle on it for a while.

“You’re doing so well now, kitten,” Illya says as he frees his finger and continues to rub his come into Napoleon’s skin. Seeing the American so clearly marked by him, makes his softening cock give a hopeful twitch. 

“Do you know why I didn’t let you have my come, hmm?” he asks lazily.

Napoleon swallows visibly and bites his lips in an effort to keep silent.

“You can speak now,” Illya amends.

“I was too greedy. Couldn’t wait to get you in my throat,” Napoleon answers. His voice is hoarse from Illya’s cock and it does things to Illya. 

“Very good, baby. But you have now paid the price. If you can be patient, I will take such good care of you next,” Illya promises. “Think you can do that?”

Napoleon nods before seemingly remembering that he is allowed to speak.

“Yes, I promise,” he croaks. 

Illya rewards him by bending down to lick some of his own come of Napoleon’s face. He suckles the skin before kissing Napoleon slow but filthy; tongue pushing past his lips to feed him Illya’s come. Napoleon sucks on the tongue in his mouth while moaning needily before Illya straightens back up. He reaches for Napoleon’s pocket square and uses it to wipe the rest of his face clean.

“Very good, Cowboy. Stand up and strip for me but leave the tie on,” Illya instructs.

Usually so graceful Napoleon stands up a little shakily. Illya watches as he hurries to unbutton his vest and shirt before shucking them on the floor.

“I do not like mess, kitten,” Illya warns.

Napoleon blushes and picks up his clothes before folding them neatly on a chair. Illya watches as Napoleon’s body is revealed to him one removed item of clothing at a time. The other man is truly beautiful; strong and masculine with probably the most perfect ass Illya has ever seen. Illya’s fingers itch to bury themselves in the dark hair of Napoleon’s chest and his mouth waters at the idea of playing with his nipples until Napoleon positively writhes with it. There is the most adorable flush on his skin that Illya plans on tasting as well. Napoleon’s cock is hard enough that Illya knows it has to be uncomfortable by now.

“Beautiful,” Illya half whispers and enjoys the way the pink blush spreads just a tiny bit further. Napoleon reaches a hand up to brush at his hair but Illya knows it’s an attempt to hide.

“Look at me, kitten,” Illya says in a voice that doesn’t quite hide his annoyance.

“You are absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful. Do not try to hide.” 

Napoleon blushes a shade darker but lowers his hand.

“Perfect,” Illya murmurs.

Illya reaches out and takes a hold of the tangling end of the tie. He uses it to maneuver Napoleon until he is standing next to the armrest of the couch. Illya taps it and Napoleon places both hands on it; bending at the waist.

“Very good, baby,” Illya croons. “Hands stay where they are, yes?”

“Yes, Illya,” Napoleon breathes out a bit shakily.

Illya runs his hands over Napoleon’s strong back as a reward and he enjoys the way the muscles shift underneath his touch. He skims his hand down Napoleon’s sides and the man shivers deliciously. Reaching around, Illya indulges himself and runs his fingers through the coarse hair on Napoleon’s chest. His curious fingers find a nipple and pinch it playfully. Illya can’t help but be pleased with the soft moan his actions earn him. Illya can feel the strong chest rising and falling more rapidly under his hands with every teasing touch. When he runs his palm down Napoleon’s abs, the other man positively pants with anticipation. Then Illya cups Napoleon loosely with his big palm only to hear Napoleon let out a strangled groan as his hips jerk involuntarily into Illya’s touch. 

“Shh, baby. You are doing so well, you are so hard for me. But I don’t want you to come yet. Can you do that, baby?” Illya asks as he lets his lips brush against Napoleon’s heated neck with each word.

“I - I will try,” Napoleon says tightly.

“Color?” Illya asks with concern in his voice.

Napoleon takes a breath but answers “green” to Illya’s relief.

“Good, baby. That’s good. Now spread your legs a bit wider for me. I want to see all of you,” Illya says as he skims his hands along the other man’s meaty thighs.

Napoleon lets out a ragged breath but does as Illya asks. Illya drops to his knees behind him and uses his thumbs to spread Napoleon’s cheeks apart until he sees the tight little opening. Oh, how Illya is going to enjoy loosening it up. Illya breathes on Napoleon’s hole to see it twitch.

“Why are you so perfect everywhere, kitten? So damn beautiful. Can’t wait to see your lovely little pink hole all wet and gaping,” he says before nuzzling Napoleon’s crack. The other man’s thighs are quivering and his hips jerk almost violently at the first swipe of Illya’s tongue. Illya can’t help but moan at how responsive Napoleon is to his touch. He laps hungrily at Napoleon before working just the tip inside.

“Oh my God, Illya. You need to stop that or you’re going to make me come! Please!” Napoleon begs as he claws at the armrest pitifully. 

Illya feels positively drunk on clearly giving Napoleon pleasure. He hums and pushes his tongue further inside. Napoleon howls as he arches magnificently; consequently pushing his ass harder onto Illya’s face. Illya uses his hands on Napoleon’s thighs to encourage the other man to push back on his tongue.  Napoleon is babbling almost nonstop as Illya works his tongue inside his body with teasing licks.

“Illya! My God! Fuck that’s - GOD! Please, Illya, I - just please,  _ daddy _ !”

Illya hears the last word and it sparks a new kind of possessiveness in him; the flames of arousal burning higher as he growls into Napoleon.  _ His  _ Napoleon. Illya sucks at his rim greedily before curling his tongue back inside. The way Napoleon keens and arches makes Illya’s cock throb. He can barely wait to be inside of Napoleon; to be that connected to him. Illya can scarcely breathe as he buries his head into Napoleon’s ass the best he can.

“Yellow!” Napoleon howls out.

Illya lets go of him instantly and waits with bated breath. Had he gone too far? He stares at the gaping hole and notices how red his stubble has rubbed the surrounding skin. Illya feels a pang of regret and the urge to soothe the redness away. 

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon pants and Illya feels the flutter of relief expanding in his chest. “I was about to come. Almost couldn’t stop myself. Fuck, Illya, the things you can do with your tongue,” Napoleon hurries to explain.

Illya relaxes and hums in acknowledgement.

“No need to apologize, baby. But what happened to ‘daddy’?” Illya asks instead as he dares to run soothing hands over Napoleon’s shivering thighs. 

Napoleon blushes and groans in embarrassment.

“I like it when you call me that, baby. My baby boy. Can I call you that? Can I call you my baby boy?” Illya asks and this time Napoleon moans a bit brokenly. There is already a pool of precome at Napoleon’s feet and Illya watches in awe as the American drips some more onto it.

“Yes, please - daddy,” Napoleon whines and Illya’s fingers grip Napoleon’s thighs more tightly at the admission. Illya is so turned on he can barely think. Mind gone hazy with lust and bone shatteringly deep  _ want.  _ He is in a desperate need for clearing his head.

“Good boy. Don’t move,” he says before getting up. 

Illya uses the necessity of getting something slick to give himself, as well as Napoleon, some time to cool down. Illya’s own cock is getting very much into the game again and he gives it a calming squeeze before joining Napoleon once more. He is pleased to see that Napoleon hasn’t moved.

“You’re doing so well, baby. As a reward, you get to take my clothes off. You can be as quick or slow as you want. Also, as handsy as you want,” Illya promises. 

Napoleon’s breath visibly quickens as he glances a look at Illya. The Russian gives him a nod and the other man lets go of the couch before turning to face him. Napoleon’s hands are trembling but that doesn’t hinder his clever fingers much. Working on Illya’s buttons as confidently as cracking a safe, he peels the layers of clothing off Illya’s torso. Napoleon admires him hungrily as his fingers map every part of Illya’s exposed skin; flit over every contour and brush over every scar. The touch is oddly soothing and Illya lets himself enjoy the soft caress. He can’t quite remember the last time someone was this gentle with him. Illya feels something in his chest tighten at the realization.  

His reverie is broken when Napoleon’s hands abruptly shove their way under Illya’s pants to palm at his ass. They moan in unison and Illya does nothing to hide the shiver that runs through him. One day he hopes Napoleon will explore all of him but that won’t be today. The thought sends a fresh spike of lust through him. Napoleon kneels to free Illya of his shoes, socks and pants, and Illya’s cock twitches excitedly at having Napoleon’s clever mouth so close to it again. 

Once Illya is naked, he gives Napoleon a moment before tugging at his tie. Napoleon follows easily and stands in front of him, waiting.

“Time to take a seat, baby,” Illya murmurs. However, he stops Napoleon as he tries to sink back on to the floor.

“Nuh-uh. You have done so well today that you deserve something better than the floor, no?” Illya says. 

He leaves Napoleon standing and looking a bit lost before Illya sits down on the couch and gestures toward his lap. Napoleon’s eyes widen briefly and Illya has to remind him about obeying by tugging at the tie softly. At the gentle suggestion, Napoleon is quick to climb onto Illya’s lap. They both groan as their naked bodies come into contact. Illya wants to close his eyes and revel in the feeling but Napoleon is all flushed and simply too pretty to resist. Illya openly admires the man on his lap and traces the outline of the blush reverently. 

“Don’t you look pretty, sitting on your daddy’s lap like this?” Illya says with awe evident in his voice. The way the flush adorning Napoleon’s skin spreads at his words is just too precious. Illya finds it hard to believe that he has this kind of power over his suave partner; that Napoleon has willingly relinquished control to him. 

“You have been so good for me all night and you were so good during the mission,” Illya continues as Napoleon in turn continues to turn a darker shade of red. He is also squirming lightly in Illya’s lap.

“You were so charming like you always are. So suave. Let the mark come to you, made her  _ want  _ to come to you. Which, of course, is no wonder, looking like you do,” Illya says as he plays idly with the tie as his other hand rests self indulgently on the meatiest part of Napoleon’s amazing thigh. 

“Illya,” Napoleon whines as his eyes drift closed.

Illya lets go of the tie instantly to cup Napoleon’s face.

“You look at me when I compliment you, understood?” Illya demands with a slightly harsh tone to his words. 

“Yes, daddy,” Napoleon breaths and locks eyes with him. 

“Well done, baby. Now, hand me that slick,” Illya says.

Napoleon hurries to comply and slicks Illya’s offered fingers eagerly while moaning a little in anticipation. Illya brings his hand around to circle a questioning finger at Napoleon’s entrance and the American shudders as he spreads his thighs wider. Illya watches in awe as Napoleon’s eyes fall shut as the tip of his index finger breaches him. Napoleon wraps his arms around Illya’s neck for support and tries to rock his hips back to take more of his finger. Illya steadies Napoleon with one hand on his hip and doesn’t let the American hurry him along. He wriggles just the tip inside and Napoleon’s thighs spasm violently as he keens high and needy. The noise goes straight to Illya’s cock. If Napoleon is this loud with only the tip of Illya’s finger in him, he is bound to sound glorious when Illya finally pushes his cock inside. Illya takes a calming breath before working his finger fully into Napoleon with tiny little thrusts that leave Napoleon breathless and his cock leaking. Illya can’t help but moan at the feeling of finally being inside of Napoleon like this.

When Illya feels Napoleon take his finger in easily, he adds another one. Napoleon is so incredibly tight and hot around Illya’s fingers that his cock throbs excitedly. He tries to distract himself by mouthing at Napoleon’s neck and shoulder as his fingers keep sliding in and out of Napoleon’s devastating heat. 

“You take my fingers so beautifully, baby. Going to make you feel so good, I promise,” Illya says breathlessly.

Napoleon groans and fights Illya’s grip as he tries to push back against Illya’s fingers.

“You already are making me feel so good, daddy. So  _ wanted _ ,” he  whines out.

Illya swallows hard. 

“I don’t think I have ever wanted anyone more, Cowboy. My sweet baby boy. My  _ Napoleon. _ ” Illya confesses. He feels the American shudder at the use of his name.

After scissoring his fingers carefully, Illya starts crooking them experimentally. Napoleon makes the most beautifully wanton sound at the first brush of Illya’s fingers against his prostate. Illya keeps rubbing the spot only to have Napoleon fighting his grip as he attempts to grind down on Illya’s digits. 

“Fuck me, daddy. Please, fuck me,” Napoleon starts to beg and Illya makes an embarrassingly needy noise of his own.

“Soon, baby, soon. Just one more finger. Just one more. You’re doing so well, baby, so well,” Illya says in strained voice. It isn’t easy to keep your composure when you have writhing Napoleon in your lap. Illya spreads his fingers slightly inside Napoleon before carefully adding a third in the mix. The other man groans and bucks while Illya works to stretch him. Napoleon’s cock is leaking steadily as he cries out almost constantly on top of Illya.

In desperate attempt to calm both of them down a bit, Illya shushes him.

“Almost done, baby, almost done,” he  promises. Napoleon sobs at the words. 

Pulling his fingers gently out of Napoleon, Illya slicks himself up as fast as he can. The feel of his own hand on his neglected cock makes Illya hiss and he squeezes himself at the base in desperate attempt to stay calm . As Illya lets the blunt head of his cock skim over Napoleon's opening, the American starts begging again.

“I’ve been good, daddy. Please, I’ve been so good.” 

Illya can’t help but agree so he pushes in; slow and steady. They both groan at the initial contact and Illya has to stop briefly to gather his wits. Napoleon keens and writhes, making it almost impossible for Illya to keep up his slow pace. With an iron self restraint and equally firm grip on Napoleon’s gyrating hips, Illya inches his way in patiently. What feels simultaneously like an eternity later and no time at all, Illya is fully sheathed inside Napoleon’s burning heat. He  stills and waits as Napoleon makes little noises that sound like it hurts.

“Color?” Illya asks between gasps.

“Green! Oh my God, Illya! So, fucking  _ green _ ,” Napoleon moans out instantly.

“Good to hear, baby. Ready?”

“Fuck yes, daddy! Give it to me. Take care of me,” Napoleon urges. 

Illya groans as he allows himself to start moving. He begins shifting his hips minutely; tiny little movements that leave both of them gasping for air. After a while, it is not enough anymore and Illya reluctantly loosens his vice like grip on Napoleon’s hips. 

“You’ve gotta help me out here, baby. Show me that you can ride, Cowboy.”

Napoleon groans at Illya’s bad joke but lifts his hips with a grateful little sigh before sinking back down quickly. Illya makes sure Napoleon keeps the pace slow enough to his liking. To distract himself, he  wraps one of his hands around the tie. The small tug brings Napoleon’s attention back to him. Napoleon looks Illya in the eye as he keeps rocking in the Russian’s lap.

“I didn’t need this tie when I bought it. I just liked it so much that I couldn’t keep myself from buying it. For three years it has been my naughty little secret. My one frivolous purchase. All that time is has been the prettiest thing I have ever owned - until now. Until you,” Illya confesses between panting gasps. 

Napoleon squirms, he doesn’t look away, however one of his hands comes up to cover his face.

Illya sighs resolutely and stops Napoleon’s hips. Napoleon whines pitifully as Illya keeps him flush against his lap. 

“I warned you about hiding before,” he reprimands.

Illya gives Napoleon’s hips a meaningful squeeze before letting go. Napoleon stays obediently still as Illya unties the tie from around his neck. Gathering Napoleon’s wrists in one of his big hands, Illya uses the piece of fabric to tie them behind his back.

“I know you can get free. Don’t.” Illya warns and Napoleon nods.

“Where was I? Oh, yes. You, Napoleon Solo, my baby boy, are the prettiest thing that I have ever seen.”

Napoleon’s breath hitches but he doesn’t look away. The cheeky bastard does, however, tighten himself deliberately around Illya. Illya groans hungrily but this isn’t about his needs. He gives one of the incredibly round ass cheeks a light slap in retaliation and Napoleon sharply gasps in surprise. Napoleon’s eyes seem to darken further but Illya carries on undeterred. 

“Not only that, you are so clever. So much better with people than I am. Thanks to you, we had successful mission today. Thanks to your charm,” Illya kisses the bright red apex of Napoleon’s cheek bone softly. “Thanks to your expert lockpicking.” Illya kisses his other cheek. “- and your superior safe cracking,” another kiss on the forehead, “we were able to get away before anyone noticed anything was awry,” Illya muses as he plants a peck to the tip of Napoleon’s nose. “You were so good at what you do, today that for once, you were  _ not  _ a bad spy.” Illya adds with a small crook of his lips. 

Napoleon has turned beet red and is full on shaking on Illya’s lap. He looks close to tears and seeing his partner this vulnerable makes Illya want to protect him at all costs. Even if it is from his kind words. But Illya needs Napoleon to understand; needs him to see himself as Illya sees him.  

“You are so good, baby. You are so good,” Illya tells him as he runs soothing hands over Napoleon’s quivering thighs. He waits for Napoleon’s breathing to calm a little.

“Tell me, my sweet baby boy. What are you?” Illya asks only to hear Napoleon sob brokenly.

He is shaking his head while still maintaining eye contact with Illya as instructed.

“Please, I can’t,” Napoleon sobs and there’s a fresh tear rolling down his cheek the next time he blinks. 

“Yes, you can, baby. You have done much harder things than this. It’s simple question with simple answer. Answer it and I will take such good care of you, I promise” Illya says as soothingly as possible. His own heart is clenching to see his Cowboy this way but he needs Napoleon to do this; needs to help him break some of his walls.

“I -,” Napoleon begins and swallows. Illya rolls his hips encouragingly and watches as the American’s eyes roll back in his head.

“I’m good,” Napoleon lets out in a quick little rush of breath.

“That you are, my sweet boy,” Illya agrees and allows Napoleon to squirm on his cock a bit.

“One more time and I will fuck you until you come all over your pretty pink chest,” he promises.

“I’m your good boy,” Napoleon sobs and Illya instantly rocks his hips as hard into him as the angle allows. Napoleon sobs and wails with it. They are both panting as Illya picks up his pace. Napoleon’s thighs are flexing hard to cooperate with the other man’s thrusts. Illya lets Napoleon chase the perfect angle and revels in the obscenely wanton noises his partner makes as Illya’s cock starts brushing against his prostate. Napoleon’s back bows beautifully and his flushed chest is presented for Illya’s viewing pleasure. The Russian leans in to suckle at the pink buds and Napoleon reacts to Illya’s attention magnificently: he keens and tightens impossibly further around the cock thrusting into him. Illya moans brokenly around the little nub in his mouth and works to thrust harder. It doesn’t take long for Napoleon to start struggling to keep up as he is clearly becoming overwhelmed by pleasure.

Illya realizes that he can’t quite get the leverage he needs with the other man growing increasingly more pliable in his lap. He is regrettably forced to free Napoleon’s wrists before pulling out of him. The whine he gets as a protest makes his cock leak and breath hitch. Illya flips them so that Napoleon is on his back on the couch and guides the American’s hand above his head.

“These stay here, yes?” Illya demands and Napoleon gives him a dazed looking nod as he grips the arm rest tightly. 

“Yes, daddy,” Napoleon pants.

Satisfied, Illya positions himself between the spread of Napoleon’s thighs and pushes back in. They both moan as the new angle allows him even deeper than before. Napoleon clamps his legs around Illya as the Russian rocks steadily into him. Napoleon is tight and perfect around him and Illya has to concentrate hard to resist the urge to start pounding mindlessly into the pliant body. He tilts his hips in search of the perfect angle until Napoleon tightens around him and cries out. Illya watches as Napoleon fists the arm of the couch desperately as each thrust tears another little cry past his parted lips. Witnessing Napoleon’s obvious pleasure, pleasure that Illya is giving him, makes Illya’s self control start to unravel. Illya bends down to swallow some of Napoleon’s sweet noises of pleasure and kisses him until the need to breathe becomes too much. 

Panting against Napoleon’s reddened lips, Illya sets a maddening pace. He fucks into Napoleon with long hard strokes before burying himself to the hilt and grinding into his sweet spot. He alternates his rhythm and listens for Napoleon’s reactions to his thrusts. The American is a writhing and babbling mess under him and Illya has never seen anything as breathtaking as him. Napoleon is clawing at the couch and urging Illya on with his whole body. Illya wants to draw the moment out but can’t. The other man takes him too sweetly and moans too wantonly for Illya to last. He steals a desperate kiss from Napoleon before admitting defeat. He is past the point of slowing down or teasing. Illya feels his rhythm falter so he kisses Napoleon as sweetly as he can, in total contradiction of the intention of his hard thrust.

“Come for me, baby. Come for your daddy,” he commands gently as he thrusts as deep as he can. 

With a suddenness that astonishes them both, Napoleon follows Illya’s order. Back arching completely off the couch, he lets out a long, drawn out keening wail as he comes untouched all over his own chest in glorious spurts. The pearly white strips look devastating on his flushed skin. Illya does his best to work Napoleon through his climax; each brush of his cock against Napoleon’s sweet spot coaxing another spurt of come out of his twitching cock. Only after Napoleon stops coming, does Illya allow himself to let go. Few desperate thrusts later and he is coming deep inside Napoleon’s pliant body. 

Illya barely manages to keep from collapsing fully onto Napoleon as he works to catch his breath. Napoleon is still shuddering weakly under him but isn’t moving otherwise. 

“Cowboy? You with me?” Illya asks as he clumsily brings his hand to caress Napoleon’s face. 

“Mmm,” is the only reply Illya is given. Napoleon still doesn’t open his eyes or move a muscle. 

“You good, baby?” Illya has to check. That finally makes the other man show some signs of life.

“So good, daddy,” Napoleon sighs and the corner of his reddened lips curls up minutely. 

Illya lets out a relieved breath and smiles giddily down at Napoleon. Part of him is glad Napoleon can’t see the utterly ridiculous grin adorning Illya’s face.

Illya pulls reluctantly out of Napoleon as gently as he can. Napoleon’s legs twitch weakly in an attempt to pull Illya closer and the American makes an unhappy noise in protest. 

“Shh. I’ll be right back,” he soothes. 

Illya hurriedly cleans himself in the bathroom before returning with a damp washcloth. Napoleon sights as Illya cleans his face and chest. When Illya moves between his legs, he moans softly before spreading his legs apart invitingly. Illya swallows as a new pang of hunger digs its claws into him. 

“All fucked out and still greedy for it,” Illya can’t help but admire out loud.

Napoleon moans and blushes faintly even while trying to open his legs wider. Illya helps push one of his thighs higher until he can see the American’s hole. The sight of it makes Illya gasp and his eyes widen. Napoleon’s opening is stretched out, pink and puffy from Illya’s cock. Overall, Napoleon looks thoroughly used by Illya but the fact that there is  _ Illya’s  _ come leaking out of him, is overwhelming. He can’t help but trace the swollen rim with a reverent finger; catching some of his own come on the digit. Napoleon’s breath hitches and his hole flutters under Illya’s exploration. Illya feels like his breath is knocked out of him and he brings his finger to his lips. 

“Are you trying to kill me?” Napoleon whimpers.

Illya notices that his partner has finally opened his eyes slightly and is staring at Illya with hooded eyes. Illya smirks and makes a show of sucking his finger clean. The scandalized noise Napoleon lets out makes his heart beat a bit faster.

“We taste so good together, baby,” Illya drawls. 

“Wanna taste?” He asks as he leans down; his lips only an inch away from Napoleon’s. The American only moans and lets his lips part invitingly. Illya closes the gap and pushes his tongue into the other man’s awaiting mouth. Napoleon suckles on his tongue and they both moan.

Illya pulls away before things can get any more heated and finishes wiping Napoleon clean while fighting his desire to linger. Illya is feeling increasingly tired but knows the couch is too small for the two of them. Napoleon looks like he has melted into the cushions and is fast starting to drift. Illya sight resolutely and gathers his partner into his arms. Mostly limp Napoleon is not an easy thing to lift but the Russian’s bedroom is luckily not that far. Napoleon doesn’t give even a token protest as Illya carries him to bed. Once under the sheets, Napoleon snuggles as close to him as possible. The small gesture warms Illya’s heart. Illya tucks the other man’s head under his chin and smiles fondly as Napoleon purrs happily.

“Thanks for taking care of me, daddy,” Napoleon murmurs sleepily.

“Anytime, baby boy, anytime,” Illya promises and presses a gentle kiss on Napoleon’s messy curls before drifting off to sleep.


End file.
